We’d heard that the American soldiers were scrambling to find ways to feed us. There were nearly seven thousand people who had crossed the border bridge the day the Federales came to Piedras Negras. Many of us had run across with nothing but the ragged clothes on our backs. Those who’d managed to bring a little bit of food, like cacti pads or stale tortillas, had since eaten every last bit.

We’d been told we’d get food but no one knew when.

I made out Abuelita’s figure as she sat on a wooden crate near the tent’s entrance. She squeezed at her elbows, her shoulders, and every joint that complained about the cool, moist air.

“Abuelita,” I whispered. “Do you need me to rub your hands?”

“No, m’ija. I’m fine,” Abuelita said. “I want you to rest and be ready for work at sunrise. We’re in America and we can’t let tomorrow go to waste.”

I lay back down on the dirt floor and curled into a ball with my bare feet tucked under my skirt. Next to me, my sister Amelia and my baby brother Luisito slept, and outside, the rain poured. I reached into my skirt’s pocket and pulled out my black rock, my baby diamond— the only thing I had left of Papa.

My black rock was a small piece of coal from when Papa worked at the mine, and every time I squeezed it, his words rang inside me just as clear as the day he gave it to me: “When life’s problems squeeze you hard, Petra, you grow up to shine like a diamond.”

The harsh wind continued to lash against the canvas walls of our tent, I lay still despite the deep hunger nagging fiercely at my gut. I tried to clear my mind just like Abuelita had said to do when you wanted to listen to nature. On this night, I intended to listen to the wind. Perhaps it brought news of Papa and his whereabouts in Mexico. The wind knew of the sacrifice Papa had made seven months ago. It knew Papa detested the Federales and had refused to join them at first. The wind saw when the Federales put him in front of a firing squad for his defiance. It had heard my screams and felt my pain the moment I saw him blindfolded with rifles aiming at him. The soldiers pulled me away, and Papa agreed to join the hated Federales, to spare me the pain of seeing him killed. The wind knew it all.

So, I remained still. I wanted the wind to tell me Papa was safe fighting for the Federales or that he had managed to escape them and join the Revolucionarios. I squeezed my black rock hard and pushed every thought out of my head. But the wind said nothing, it brought nothing no matter how much I remained still. Instead, it blew wet and cold, as if coming from a strange, new place.

***

Morning sunshine poured through the tent’s narrow slits and voices heavy with concern broke the morning silence, just as they had the past two mornings. They were from people stopping by, giving us names, and asking if we’d heard of their missing mothers, fathers, sons, or daughters. The refugee camp had become a grapevine of information for people seeking loved ones. Abuelita always gave the same response, “No, lo siento.”

This morning I heard Abuelita say, “Ay, Dios,” and she gasped. I rushed to the tent’s entrance, fearing Abuelita had bad news about Papa.

Abuelita, with a hand over her heart, spoke to a man whose tent was nearby.

“Cuándo?” Abuelita asked him.

“Last night,” said the man. “They pulled a large pine box out of the tent, with the dead woman inside. I was told it was smallpox.”

“And what about her children? Are they well?” Abuelita asked.

The man shrugged his shoulders. “The gringos aren’t letting anyone come near the area. They have everyone there in cuarentena.”

Cuarentena referred to the forty days sick people were required to remain in their homes. In the camp, that word brought fear of sickness, of being sent back to Mexico, back to the revolution, and of death.

The man left but Abuelita’s shocked look remained.

“I don’t know what’s going to kill us first,” she said, “hunger or smallpox.”

“Maybe I’ll find work today and can buy us some food,” I said. “Can you give your blessing?” I bowed my head and Abuelita made the sign of the cross over me, whispering a blessing.

“Abuelita,” I said, “I heard last night that a group of people here at the camp want to go back into Mexico and retake Piedras Negras. I think everyone here is too hungry and scared of smallpox.”

Abuelita put an arm around me. “Mira,” she said and raised a bulgy finger towards the river, pointing at Mexico. “The revolution is across the Río Bravo. It’s behind us. But our battles with hunger and now the disease – those are still with us. Don’t get any crazy ideas about joining that group. We need you here with us.”

I reached for the ends of the purple scarf around my neck. Often when I touched my scarf I thought of Marietta – a captain of the rebel forces and the toughest woman I’d ever met. After Abuelita, my siblings and I had fled our village in Mexico, Luisito had become very sick and Marietta helped save him. She took our family to a rebel camp, and thanks to her, we were spared from death. As much as I wanted to cross over and join Marietta’s cause, and as much as the hunger twisted my stomach and made it want to eat itself, I still had a promise to keep. A promise I’d made to Papa to keep our family safe.

I thought about my dreams too but at this point, neither side of the river seemed to offer a good chance of making them come true.

“I’ll stay put,” I said to Abuelita.

I walked away thankful that Amelia and Luisito were still asleep. I hated to see them awake and hungry.

I passed rows and rows of the same canvas tents that dominated the camp. Their dull color matched the mood on people’s faces, mostly women and children, who sat outside desperate for food. At the end of the city of tents lay an open field where hundreds of people huddled in small groups. These were the refugees who had reached the camp after all the tents had been taken up. They lay out in the open without a shrub to provide shelter from the wind and rain.

I walked up the dirt road, away from the camp, rubbing the chill off my arms. Other lonesome souls trekked far ahead and far behind me. All of us with our heads bowed against the wind.

Our camp had been set in the outskirts of a town with an English name that everyone pronounced as igle pas. Like Piedras Negras across the river, I’d been told this town’s name also had a meaning. It meant el paso del águila, the eagle’s pass. The Mexican flag carried a proud eagle on its center and I wondered if we were the eagles who’d stepped into this new territory.

When I reached the center of the town, the fast and colorful automobiles didn’t impress me like on the first day I’d come there. They now seemed loud and annoying. I had walked most of the streets in town and none were paved with gold or sprinkled with diamonds like I’d once imagined. They were dull and muddy and made from packed earth like the ones back home.

By midday, I had knocked on at least fifty doors and my knuckles stung. I offered to chop firewood, herd sheep, milk cows, clean stables, or scrub floors, but everyone shook their head and said the same thing. “No hay trabajo. There’s no work.”

I stopped before heading back to the camp and took a moment to stare out at the wide, grey river. Federales guarded the Mexican side with rifles, each stood about fifty steps from each other along the river.

I loosened my scarf and filled my lungs with the air sweeping in from Mexico. It didn’t ease my mind nor my hunger pains, which had grown into ferocious growls that jabbed at my gut and spread queasiness all over me. The Americanos had opened their gates and had provided shelter, but the food wasn’t coming. No one knew when or if we’d be fed. And if the smallpox became worse, would we all be sent back to Mexico? It’d been three days and things were once again dire.

I glanced at the ground and something shiny stood out. I picked it up. It was a smooth, bright green wrapper. It had a strong smell of spring within its folds — a soap wrapper. I stared at the words on it and my heart leaped when I recognized a few letters from my name. I folded it up and tucked it next to my baby diamond.

I hadn’t found work, but I had found something that reminded me my dream to one day read and write still burned within me.

I heard the wind again. Was it talking to me in a different language, in one that I was yet to learn? Was it whispering things from a different place or a different time? Telling me of future encounters or friendships to come?

I hushed my mind once more, took a deep breath, and let the wind speak to me. And though I couldn’t understand it, I clung to the sense of peace and hope it brought.